“I really need to rest right now,” I begin vaguely, my eyes still locked on clouds of black and grey, my palms pressing against the dresser behind me. “Those cramps . . .”
I hear Bobby let out a sigh, and the creak of the loveseat as he stands. “And that’s my cue,” he says, amusement in his tone. When he strolls toward me, I stiffen, unsure what to do. He walks right next to me, almost touching Death’s arm in the process. “Better let you go for the night. Can I see you tomorrow?”
I nod without thinking, just needing him to leave. He reaches a hand up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Once again, I can’t breathe, watching him barely miss making contact with the other man before me. A man who suddenly looks ready to kill again, jaw locked and eyes hard. He doesn’t move though, not in the least, as though daring Bobby to come closer.
I inhale a sharp breath and angle my head to see Bobby fully, hoping I sound sure and calm when I say, “Tomorrow. We’ll have lunch.” I even attempt a smile.
Bobby nods and lowers his hand. “Great. Lunch it is.” He turns and walks toward the door. When his fingers squeeze the handle, he looks back with a parting smile.
Then he’s gone.
And suddenly, it’s just me . . . and Death.
Chapter 18
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
The two of us are having the most intense staring contest of my life, as though winning is nothing less than a matter of survival. An invisible rope harnesses his gaze to mine, preventing me from pulling away. His arms may not be boxing me in any longer, but with less than two feet of space between us, they may as well be. The heat radiating off his body coats my skin in a light sweat. I don’t want to be the first to look away, but I can’t take this.
Whateverthisis.
I need distance between us. I need to be able to think. To breathe.
Just when I open my mouth to say something—anything—he turns away and adds a few more feet of space between us, running a hand through his wild hair before bringing it back down to brush over his face. His warmth on my skin fades with the distance, cooling me slightly, and a rush of oxygen bursts through my lungs. With his back still facing me, I can feel the tension coursing through his body, see the defined lines of his shoulders and back tightening. There’s so much turmoil boiling inside of him, I can’t help but wonder what’s racing through his mind right now.
I’m the first to speak. “How long have you been here? In my room?”
After a pause, he slowly turns. “Hours, possibly. I don’t know.” His cold, expressionless eyes are looking at me, his jaw hard. Whatever war was waging inside him when Bobby was here has been shoved down and locked away.
Hours.Hours of this man alone in my bedroom. Jesus.
“And you’re . . . stuck here?”
He pushes out a rigid breath, yet his tone is under remarkable control, calm and collected. Such a contrast from just a few short moments ago. “It would seem that way.”
“What are you going to do?”
The low, humorless chuckle that sounds from deep in his throat takes me by surprise. It doesn’t reach those steel eyes. “Lou, is it?”
I try to ignore the foreign, tugging sensation stirring in my chest at hearing my name on his lips for the first time. Somehow, it feels both intimate and threatening coming from him. “Yes.” I lift my chin, hoping I seem as sure of myself as he does himself. “That’s my name.”
“Where I’m from—it’s not like this place.” He inches toward me, but only slightly. Something about his movements feels reserved, like he’s holding back. Still, it’s enough to spike my heart rate again. “I don’t know the rules here.” He curses under his breath and swipes his hair back from his forehead. “I’ve never spent . . . time here. Not like this. This is all very new to me.”
“Where you’re from? Where is that, exactly?”
With eyes of black ice and a voice just as deadly, he answers, “You don’t really want to know.” After a beat he adds, “No one would.”
Something about the intensity rattling through his tone sends another chill over me. It’s laced with warning, and I find myself agreeing with him. He’s right; I don’t want to know.
“So you’re just going to stay here then?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
“Does it look like I have a choice?”
“DoIhave a choice?”
